hair off her face and held it out of her eyes as she joined him at the shoreline. Water lapped at her shoes but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘You’re too late. You missed your chance to escape from Gull,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make other arrangements now.’
Maybe not, thought Patrick as madness seized him. He turned to her and the words came tumbling out. ‘I could be wrong, but I hear you’re looking for a barman.’
If Maisie had been sitting on her favourite rock when she heard the Blond’s announcement, she was sure she’d have fallen off it. All her smart replies flew out of her mind in favour of a strangled: ‘Sorry?’
‘Sorry? As in sorry, the vacancy’s been filled? Sorry, if it was a choice between Hitler and me, you’d hand the job to Adolf?’
Maisie spluttered. ‘Don’t be so daft. You’d be perfect. I mean, you’d make a perfect – a very good and competent – barman. I’m sure.’
‘But?’
‘Five minutes ago, you were leaving. Your bags are packed. Look.’ She picked up the rucksack again, which was about as tall as she was, and almost toppled over.
‘Careful, Maisie Samson. Don’t want you doing yourself an injury.’
‘I’m worried I might do an injury to more than myself if I take you on at the Driftwood.’
Patrick folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re not up for the challenge?’
Maisie bit back a reply. Her heart was beating faster than she liked and she was on very dangerous ground. She wanted him to work for her and dreaded it in equal measure, for entirely opposing reasons.
‘There was a notice advertising the job in the campsite reception … that wasn’t a figment of my imagination, now was it?’ he said.
‘No. It was a real notice and there is a vacancy.’
‘And you just said, if my hearing didn’t deceive me, that I’d be perfect.’
‘That was wrong of me. You don’t have any experience …’
‘I thought I’d make a very competent barman?’
‘I only meant you’ve the gift of the gab. You seem to like talking, anyway.’
‘Miaow,’ said the Blond. Maisie could have cheerfully hit him with his rucksack, if she could have got it off the ground.
‘I need someone who can hit the ground running. I can’t carry passengers.’
‘Two transport metaphors in one sentence. She’s smart.’
‘And you’re fired,’ said Maisie, thinking of lobbing a stone at him and hoping it bounced off his head. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘What? You mean the Gull Island grapevine hasn’t worked this time?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that famous yet, but it would probably be a good idea to introduce yourself if you’re interested in applying for the job.’
The Blond stepped forward and stuck out his hand. ‘It’s Patrick. Patrick McKinnon. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.’
Heat rose to Maisie’s cheeks. That kiss they’d shared in St Mary’s had been anything but formal but at least she had a name at last.
Patrick McKinnon. It was a nice, normal name that suited him well. She shook his hand briefly but firmly then stepped back to maintain her distance. Her heart was beating much faster than she wanted it to.
‘I appreciate it’s an unconventional way of going about things and if you don’t like the look of me or can’t stand my cheek, then fair enough, but I do have plenty of experience. I’ve worked in half a dozen pubs and bars in my time, including one in Melbourne for the past five years as bar manager. I can even turn my hand to some cooking if it’s basic. I can get references that’ll prove I’m not about to run off with the takings or the customers.’
‘OK. I’ll admit that sounds tempt … I mean satisfactory, but how do I know you have the right to work here?’ Maisie said, recovering her composure a little. ‘Gull Island may be the back of beyond and, yes, rules are broken, but I can’t afford to be in trouble with the powers-that-be.’
Patrick smiled. ‘I have the right to work here, rest assured, and I can prove it.’
‘It can get lonely here in the winter,’ she said. ‘Lonely and monotonous. Seeing the same old faces day after day, being stuck on the isles – on Gull Island – for days at a time when the weather closes in. This island can send people nuts, believe me.’
‘All the more reason to have a fresh face around the place, eh?’
For me, thought Maisie, but maybe not for you.
‘That flyer had been up so long the sun had almost faded the words away. You need someone urgently and from what I hear, staff are in short supply on Gull Island. I can help you in the pub and kitchen but I can also help you in other ways.’
His eyes twinkled. Maisie went all shivery. ‘Such as?’ she said, as prim as a maiden aunt.
Undeterred, Patrick pointed at the pub. ‘I could help your dad re-slate that roof and paint the woodwork that’s peeling off. The place will need a new coat of render before spring by the look of it and that terrace furniture needs re-varnishing. Your dad’s not been too well, I hear, so perhaps he could do with a hand.’
The Driftwood Inn sign creaked in the wind. The seagull picture was so weathered it might have been a penguin and the lettering was starting to dissolve. Maisie pursed her lips but her stomach did a flip. She’d winced when she’d seen her dad struggling with the roof earlier and she knew her mum was worried sick. Everything Patrick said made sense. Too much sense, so why was she hesitating? She desperately tried to get a grip and think rationally about the situation.
‘OK. I accept you have experience and we do need some practical help around the place as well as in the Inn but I don’t know anything about you. I only learned your name five minutes ago. If I’m to take you on, it’s only fair that I interview you properly and check all the paperwork’s in order.’
‘Fine. Is now a good time?’
‘As good as any as you’re not going anywhere in a hurry.’
Patrick held out his hand to let her walk ahead of him across the terrace. ‘Bring it on, then.’
Maisie gave him six weeks tops. Less if the weather was particularly crappy over the autumn. He’d definitely be gone before her mum had made the Christmas cake. She led the way into the pub and suggested he take a seat in the far corner while she collected some paperwork and her tablet.
What have I done? What the chuffing heck have I done? she thought, her inner voice nagging at her like a stroppy
